


Wishing

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Charlie and Lucien's Respective Issues [3]
Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Charlie wants affection, Coming Out, Confessions, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Emotional Baggage, Feels, First Kiss, Late Night Conversations, Lucien being a gentleman in matters romantic, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Paternal Lucien, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Praise Kink, refusing sex (again)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 20:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9783869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: Jean has moved out, taking stability with her. In the aftermath, Charlie and Lucien gravitate towards each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set in S3.  
> Some AU-ness (Mattie doesn't wake to Lucien cleaning - only Charlie does.)  
> Also some liberties taken with Lucien's military service history.  
> Also trigger warning for a brief past reference to childhood sexual assault (of a random childhood friend of Charlie's who we'll never hear about again) and about rape fantasies as a way to assuage internalized homophobia. It's brief/non-explicit/very vague IMO but I'm warning just in case.  
> Also, I'm butchering Psychopathia Sexualis but I haven't thought about it since a course I took last year and I'm too lazy to go search my course notes to be more accurate/quote it/whatever. You can find it on the internet if you're really interested.
> 
> That should be all.
> 
> Also, this was supposed to have sex, but no. Someday there will be sex, but it is not this day.

* * *

Lucien can’t sleep. Again. He’s thinking of his mother, of the idea he had of her, the few memories that now, have been called into question. He’s thinking of Jean alone in the hotel, of her intention to go to Adelaide, and the hole in his home that she’s leaving behind – no evening banter, no quips, no comforting meals or tolerance of his idiosyncrasies. He’s thinking of the way Charlie’s face had looked, when the young man’s character was validated.

 _Anytime, Doc,_ he’d said, and his eyes had been stormy blue and hungry.

The boy is a sponge – as the days have progressed, Lucien's tested this, and somehow, Charlie always has an appetite for praise. Maybe, Lucien supposes, everyone’s been going about dealing with Charlie all wrong. Maybe, had he warmed to the boy when he’d first come to Ballarat, he’d have seen his loyalty shine through sooner.

It’s not to say that Charlie’s reactions are beyond what’s proper. Save for their drunken mishap, he’s been every bit the heterosexual, taking Lucien’s comments in stride, allowing himself a small smile, or a bit of a blush, but no more than that. Still, now that he’s looking for it, the doctor cannot help but see the way Charlie is sensitive to commendation. As he’s proven his worth to both Lawson and Blake, his eyes show more spirit, and he holds his head erect and confident, more so each day. With Munro, Lucien can see something as well – a sort of icy resignation that settles on him like a shroud. As hungry as he is for positive attention, the boy seems just as ready to flinch away, to keep himself from getting hurt. It’s not cowardice – it’s much like a dog that growls and bites because it’s spent its puppyhood fearing a kick in the ribs.

Truth be told, Lucien sees a bit of himself in that – a thoroughly paternal and utterly useless thought if there ever was one. It’s not so rare, to have a troubled childhood, to grow up waiting for the world to fill in the spaces where stability and safety are meant to be.

But, damn it all, it makes him _concerned_ for the boy.

If there’s one thing Lucien Blake can do, it’s differentiate between legitimate and illegitimate guilt, and if he finds his thoughts straying to Charlie, he can call it what it is – a physiological reaction to an attractive human being, combined with some sort of Freudian corruption of the relationships between fathers and sons – and leave it at that. No sense encouraging it, but no sense running himself ragged worrying about it either. He has enough self-control, he knows, to keep that particular door firmly closed.

Or so he’s thought, until tonight.

Really, it’s all gone pear-shaped since Mrs. Toohey came to do her good works, such as they are. Tidying his private space – touching and moving his private things that Jean always knew better than to tamper with… it’s no wonder he doesn’t come down to dinner, and he refuses to feel bad about it. Instead, he digs through the mess the new housekeeper has made, attempting to return the afflicted room to its natural state of disorder, working well into the middle of the night. Disorder and sleeplessness – they’ve become the two constants in his life.

It’s hot – no surprise really – and there’s no one else awake, so Blake strips to his shirtsleeves, rolling the fabric up past his elbows, freeing his hands for dexterous work. He toils in silence, broken only by periodic bouts of cursing, and loses all track of time, so that, when none other than young Davis appears in the doorway, yawning, hair mussed, asking ‘D’you know what time it is?’ Lucien can honestly say he hasn’t a bloody clue.

“What’re you doing?” Charlie adds, blinking blearily at him. He’s given up on his full pajamas, choosing a t-shirt on account of the heat. He looks younger, standing there barefoot and beautiful. Not much like a policeman at all, really. More of an angel, or the ghost of some dead soldier whose name Lucien’s forgotten. An amalgam of both, fragile, mortal, and so, so new to the world that it’s frightening. There’s still so much left in life that can – that will – hurt him. Lucien wants to gather him up and never let him out of his sight, which is not only impractical – it’s demeaning, and he chastises himself for that one a little, because really, there’s no need to _infantilize_ Davis. He’s a grown man, after all.

“I’m looking for… for everything, really. Everything that was here that’s vanished all thanks to that… woman.”

Lucien can’t quite bring himself to be too cruel to her in absentia – rationally, he knows she was just doing what she thought she was meant to. It’s not her fault that she’s following in the footsteps of a veritable saint.

“I can help,” Charlie offers with a shrug and another yawn. “Can’t sleep, myself. Together, we could be done by morning.”

That’s an optimistic estimate if ever there was one, and Blake knows that to allow Charlie to poke around his things is tantamount to allowing him to poke around his skull, but the old suspicion is fading – Charlie has proven his worth – and, on a simple, human level, Lucien is _lonely._

“Alright. But let’s put the kettle on first. A spot of tea, and then, to work.”

Tea is, thus, made, and then forgotten, sitting, cooling, on saucers on the floor as both men rummage around the various boxes and piles.

“Found a load of old books over here,” Charlie pipes up, sniffling. “Eugh – they smell terrible! I think they have some kind of rot.”

“Throw them away, then – no, actually, tell me which they are, first. I want to know if they’re of any importance.”

Charlie nods and struggles through the first few dry titles. Almost immediately, Lucien recognizes it as one of his boxes from his college days. Medical texts, mainly – nothing he couldn’t replace in a pinch.

 _“Psycopathia Sexualis,”_ Charlie then reads, brow furrowing. “Just what were you studying at university, Doc?”

Lucien ignores the feeble attempt at a joke.

“Pass that over, if you don’t mind. Thank you. Ah… yes. I was just thinking of this the other day, actually. Don’t look so scandalized, Charlie – it’s a medical book. An understanding of sexual behavior – very famous in its day, too.”

Charlie nods, still visibly wary.

“So… so physiology and… babies. That kind of thing.”

Lucien’s smile wanes.

“Well… not exactly. It’s more to do with… motivations. Predilections, if you will. Preferences.”

Understanding dawns on the younger man in stages, all of which are visible on his open face. His eyebrows knit together and he parts his lips in a quiet ‘oh.’

“I didn’t know they had books about those sorts of things.”

“Well, they have laws about it – why not medicine? Besides, if Richard von Krafft-Ebing’s to be believed, it’s the laws that are immoral.”

The young man wrinkles his nose, sneers.

“How’s that, then?”

“There’s considerable scientific evidence to suggest that the behavior we criminalize is a medical concern, not a moral one. Empathy – reform, if you’re so inclined – are humane alternatives to punishment.”

Charlie stares into his tea, as if debating whether or not to endure a mouthful of the now tepid liquid.

“If you don’t want to be punished, you don’t have to commit buggery,” he mumbles. “I mean, it’s a choice – to go to… to bed with someone or not.”

“Of course, it is,” Lucien readily agrees. “But surely there are times in everyone’s life when they’re tempted to do something they shouldn’t, on the basis of some animal drive or other. Now, it was the author’s intent, if I remember correctly, to argue against all non-procreative… pursuits. In that model, the root cause – which he saw as a medical one – is not an active choice, but rather an unfortunate biological quirk. All this is saying is that it’s no different, in terms of impulse, than your average bloke wanting to have a go with his neighbor’s wife. He shouldn’t, and he can choose not to, but if he notices she’s attractive, he notices.”

“It’s not a crime to notice,” Charlie says softly. “It’s a crime to do something about it.”

Lucien senses a circularity to the conversation, and recognized it as unwinnable. He also recognizes an uneasy shifting to Charlie’s limbs, and a touch of color to his cheeks, which speaks to some sort of psychic discomfort.

“I am sorry,” Lucien apologizes. “I forget, sometimes, that not everyone is quite so… iconoclastic as I tend to be. I hope I haven’t scandalized you.”

Charlie shrugs.

“You haven’t. I just… I didn’t expect you’d have a book on… _that._ In your house. Where people could read it.”

He sounds every bit the little Puritan when he says that, face pinched and blotchy. Lucien laughs at that.

“It’s a book, Charlie – it’s _meant_ to be read! And why shouldn’t people learn about these things? It’s good for them, broadens the mind – if they’re interested, let them learn. Besides, it’s all much more common than you might think.”

Charlie shoots the older man a sharp glance.

“What do you mean?”

Lucien debates telling him, for a moment. Debates coming clean, if only to prove his point. It’s a terrible idea, so he squashes it down, but he does set his box aside and take a seat next to Charlie on the floor, staring his shoes, and the boy’s bare feet beside them.

“When I was in the service, I met a very good-hearted fellow. He was brave, steadfast… he was well-liked by all. A model soldier, really. A… rumor circulated. Suggested he might’ve been... different. He and I got along well enough, so one night, I asked him. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t try it on with anyone while we were there, either – myself included. Just kept himself to himself, until he was crippled and discharged. Last I heard, they’d given him a medal. Is a man who served his country, who always lived with decorum and decency, less of a man because he happens to prefer the company of his own sex? The laws say yes, but… forgive me, I have seen enough _real_ evil in this world to tell the difference.”

Charlie nods. He’s begun wringing his hands and worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Lucien takes it for standard disgust, until the boy does something wildly unexpected, and speaks in a hushed, shaking whisper.

“I’m not one of those,” he begins. Lucien nods.

“No one thinks you are, Char –”

“I think about girls. I like girls. I like them a lot.”

Lucien senses a ‘but,’ clear as he reads fear in Charlie’s eyes. They turn on him, wide and searching and very wet.

“It’s just… sometimes… sometimes you can’t help but wonder… c-can you?”

“Wonder...?”

The boy shuts his eyes tight, blanching pale and swallowing hard.

“Just… wonder what it’s… like, is all.”

Lucien is reminded, again, of his young self, when his first youthful explorations revealed his own nature.

“Charlie –”

“I’m sorry!” Charlie bursts out, recoiling. He looks like he’s going to be sick. “Oh, God, that was… I didn’t mean that – I don’t know why I said it – what I was thinking, I swear, I –”

“It’s quite alright –”

“No, it isn’t! It’s precisely the opposite of al–”

“Charlie – may I say something?”

He freezes, visibly terrified, too mute with horror to say no. Lucien smiles as warmly as he can, and sets a firm, grounding hand on Charlie’s shaking shoulder.

“That was really very brave of you, you know. Telling me the truth. It is the truth, isn’t it? It’s alright. I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

Whatever Charlie has been expecting to hear, it clearly isn’t that and he scoffs, shaking his head.

“What’s brave about it? Stupid’s more like –”

“You’re not the first man who’s wanted to know.”

The young man goes scarlet and half-turns away before Lucien’s finished speaking.

“… some of us even found out.”

It’s a risk – it’s a terrible risk, saying something like that, but then, Lucien’s been brave before, and Charlie needs him to be so, now. The words hang between them in the sudden stillness. The doctor watches the rapid rise and fall of the policeman’s chest, until it slows and Charlie tentatively meets his eyes.

“Y-you? But… you had a wife…”

“I notice beauty in the human form, wherever it may be found. Blame it on my being a doctor – I’m fascinated by physiques of all kinds. I don’t think I’m really all one way or the other.”

Charlie mulls this over for a long time. One of his hands falls to his lap and he fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt.

“I don’t… it’s not like that for me.”

Blake tries to ignore the tiny twinge of disappointment he feels at that.

“What is it like?”

The younger man sniffs, pulling at a stray thread.

“I just… I like… kindness,” he mumbles. He’s crimson now, and Lucien can see why – it says more than what he finds visually appealing, admitting something like that. “I like people… who are kind.”

Lucien gives Charlie’s shoulder a little squeeze and a pat, before withdrawing his hand.

 _“I’veneverdoneanythingwithanotherbloke!”_ Charlie adds hastily, defensive. Then, so softly Blake can hardly hear it:

“Have… have you?”

Lucien hesitates. This is veering into very dangerous territory indeed. Suddenly, the possibility of blundering headlong into a disastrous affair exists as more than an old man’s fantasy, and he’s not entirely sure that he can be gentleman enough for both of them, if things get out of hand.

“I… have done, yes.”

Charlie’s expression is unreadable – twisted up and strange.

“When you were in the service?”

“… yes.”

“With that… that fellow who got the medal?”

Lucien chuckles ruefully.

“I’m afraid I… invented that fellow. Just to prove my point. The reality was… somewhat different.”

“Different how?”

“There were a few men – good men – who were… dear friends of mine. They came to the usual ends young soldiers come to. Two dead. One’s married, I believe. Lives in Bendigo, or thereabouts. None of them were ever given particular accolades. None of them ever did anything… superhuman. I don’t feel any real sense of loss over them. It wasn’t that sort of an arrangement. It was… ah… strictly physical. Besides that, I met my wife, and that rather put an end to it.”

Charlie nods. He stares at his hands. Twiddles his thumbs and inspects his nails.

“Was it… was it worth doing, then? I mean – if you hadn’t done it – do you think you’d regret… going without?”

Lucien sighs.

“That’s an impossible question. I don’t regret it. I can’t say I’d feel bereft without it, though. It was alright. Typical military fare, really. Couple of mates lending each other a hand, so to speak. It wasn’t anything to write home about.”

In the ensuing silence, Lucien feels, suddenly, very, very old.

“When I was younger,” Charlie begins, and then immediately stops dead.

“Yes?”

“W-when I was younger I used to… I used to hope someone would force me. One of my friends told me her father’s friend had forced her. It was horrible – I didn’t understand what it meant – but I remember… wanting. To be forced.”

He looks at Lucien, and there’s a question in his eyes.

“Am I horrible, for thinking that?”

It’s not what he wants to ask, not really. _That question_ doesn’t need words. It's in his face, his eyes. _Will you force me?_

“I don’t think so. You said yourself, you didn’t know any better. I suspect you wanted to be blameless in it, if ever you got caught – is that right?”

Charlie nods.

“Well… it’s a sad state of affairs, that young children grow up so afraid of their own biology that they suffer through such thoughts as that. Not that you need my advice, but if you’re ever going to pursue such a thing, please, keep me informed – medically. And… find someone thoughtful. Not some brute. Some men can do terrible damage, going about it all in the wrong way. You don’t deserve that, Charlie – no one does. You don’t deserve to be… used up like some… commodity. You deserve the affection of an intimate friend, if you want it, but nothing less. I can understand wanting to negate your own involvement, even if I don’t agree with it, but don’t... don’t set yourself up to hate it by subjecting yourself to abuse.”

Charlie shakes his head.

“You don’t agree with it? You mean, after you did what you did, you never felt ashamed?”

Lucien’s sigh is a weary rattle in his chest.

“I feel shame for things that matter – times I’ve hurt people. Patients I couldn’t save – even when it’s not your fault, you feel that, as a doctor. But two people, giving each other comfort in the middle of the hell of war? No. I don’t feel shame for that.”

A bare foot knocked gently against Lucien’s shoe, and he knocked back, just as softly.

“I… maybe it’d be different, then. If I was a soldier. Here… I’d never – I couldn’t! Can you imagine – a policeman, getting up to that sort of thing? It’s not worth risking it. Not in a town like Ballarat. Not even in Melbourne.”

He sounds so defeated that Lucien’s resolve cracks enough for him to reach between them and take hold of the younger man’s hand.

“That’s your choice, of course. Only… you don’t have to do anything to know that you’re not alone. There are other people – good people – who feel the way you do. Time will come, the world will come to see that. In the meantime… know that I’ll never think any less of you, at least. It’s a poor replacement, the regard of one man in the face of the world’s indifference, but I mean it when I say you’ve impressed me, Charlie. You’re a good copper, and a good man. I’m… well, I’m proud of you.”

Charlie’s eyes brighten in that way they do when he’s been praised, and Lucien feels a surge of fondness crest inside him like a great wave. Against his better judgement, he thumbs a wayward curl off of the boy’s brow. Charlie shivers, but does not retreat.

“Doc, I… you mean that?”

Lucien suspects Charlie knows he does, and just wants to hear it again. The doctor finds he can’t deny him that.

“You’re an asset to the force – and to Lawson and to me. You’re a valued addition to the household. I imagine… I imagine your father would be very pleased to see the man you are.”

Charlie tilts his head. Lucien’s hand slips along his cheek, coming to rest against his jaw. He swallows, licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. The air is close – too close.

“How do you know?” the young man breathes, an edge of desperation in his voice. “How can anyone know that?”

“Because I am. Pleased with you.”

Up close, Charlie’s eyes are an endless deep, and his lips are moist and bitten and parted. _More an angel,_ Lucien thinks faintly. _More a ghost._

“Please,” Charlie whispers, and the word catches in his throat, coming out broken and mangled, sounding as needy as Lucien feels.

It’s soft. A kiss so chaste, so gentle that it feels sacred. Some private sacrament, some ritual only known to them. Charlie tries to deepen it, tries and tries in vain until he whines against Lucien’s closed lips and bites at them greedily.

_“Please.”_

It takes all the strength in Lucien’s body, but he retreats a fraction and shakes his head.

“Not just yet,” he forces out, his own voice rough and low. “I won’t have you rushing into things half-cocked.”

“I’m not a child!” Charlie hisses, but when Lucien’s thumb traces his cheekbone, he quiets, eyes fluttering shut.

“No. But you are special – precious. I won’t have your first time with a man involve deflowering you on the floor next to some moldy old books. If you want it, it will be done right, or not at all. And not with me, not unless you’re absolutely sure of yourself. I don’t want you to feel you have to because I understand, or because I’m the most amenable in the short term.”

“I’ll lose my nerve,” Charlie admits. “It’s taken all my life just to get to here – to now. What if I never get here again?”

Lucien’s arm fits easily around his shoulders, like a human anchor. Comfort.

“It’s very late. You should get some sleep. Think about it – but not too much. Don’t trouble yourself. Let things evolve naturally, in their own time. You’re young yet – you have a whole life ahead to look forward to.”

Charlie looks at him morosely, dangerously close to pouting.

“How can I sleep? You’ve just changed one of the laws that governs the universe.”

Lucien’s grin is warm and wide against Charlie’s cheek.

“You’ll be alright, Charlie Davis. Of that, I am absolutely certain.”


End file.
